


The Silence in Between

by apollaskywalker



Series: Benjamin and Mary Tallmadge [2]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11247987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollaskywalker/pseuds/apollaskywalker
Summary: Following "The Girl From the Tavern" this follows Ben and Mary's relationship through Season 4. (Obviously certain events in canon will be acknowledged and should Mary be introduced, well, I'll likely ignore canon.)





	1. Chapter 1

Martha Washington greeted him immediately upon his entrance into the house the General occupied. Ben had spent hours in Washington’s presence, debated with him, fired off challenges to him, and yet he had only ever seen Washington’s composure break a few times. The general kept himself under closely guarded control. But Mrs. Washington…

Mrs. Washington _was_ control. She never had a foot out of place; she spoke with ease to everyone, somehow connecting even in the oddest of circumstances. A regular enlisted man received the same gracious courtesy as another general. She never raised her voice or complained. Of course, Ben rarely saw her, so perhaps it was all an act, but she wore it as well as she wore the soft powder blue dress currently gracing her frame.

She promised him a hot drink and instructed him as to her husband’s location.

The sight of Washington at his desk with papers, quill, and a burning candle was so familiar now that Ben imagined he would be able to describe the scene to an artist fifty years into the future and have it be perfect. “Enter, Major,” Washington flicked his quill in a gesture meant to guide Ben into a chair. Obediently, Ben took the seat while Washington finished writing. The general scattered sand across the wet ink to dry it and then set it aside. “How are things among the dragoons?”

“Well, sir,” Ben elaborated for a few moments on the provisions, on the state of the troops and horses, and hesitated, wondering if he should add any details of the Ring. He refrained and his pause allowed Washington to lead the conversation.

“I have spoken to Floyd regarding the incident between Miss Floyd and…Arnold,” Washington said Arnold’s name as though the sounds burned his very soul to even form them. “We have come to an agreement, one that requires your participation.”

Eagerly, Ben straightened and leaned forward. “Yes, sir, however I can be of assistance.”

There was something in the press of Washington’s lips that made Ben wonder if his acquiescence was warranted. But the general didn’t give him further opportunity to examine what emotions the general had. Washington shuffled through his papers until he found the one he wanted and then submitted it to Ben. Curious, Ben took the sheet and read.

 

_Apologies_

_Release of twenty-five prisoners_

_Silence_

The three main points stuck, each one jamming itself into a lump in his throat.

Ben rose, threw the letter onto the general’s desk, and walked away, hands balling into fists.

He didn’t trust himself to speak; the words wouldn’t push past that damn lump. Rage, pure rage filled his veins, hot and quick.

“The release happens in a week’s time,” Washington spoke easily, as if Ben had asked. Ben whirled around.

“Sir! You – he – we can’t just let him get away with what he did!” His throat burned and he struggled to moderate his volume.

“He won’t. I agreed to this only because Floyd wished it.” 

“Floyd?!” Ben sputtered. “It was his daughter Arnold had kidnapped –“

“A fact, which known, might ruin her chances of a successful marriage,” Mrs. Washington entered the conversation and Ben felt as though he’d been struck by lightning. When had she entered the room?

She presented a cup of coffee to Washington and then held one out to Ben. Automatically his hands moved to accept it. But as his hand touched the cup, he pulled his hand away and repeated her words, “Ruin her chances – I beg your pardon, ma’am –“

Mrs. Washington took a seat and smoothed out her skirt. “Word gets out that she was alone with several British soldiers and one naturally assumes they took advantage of her unprotected state. True or –“

“They didn’t touch her!” Ben blurted. He, on the other hand, _had_.

“True or not,” Mrs. Washington continued, “it is what one is likely to assume. And General Floyd knows this. Silence is the best way to protect her reputation.”

Protect her reputation? Protect it for marriage chances? Had they not –

The chair seemed so distant and his legs so…nonexistent.

Miraculously, he managed to stay upright.

Ben swallowed but the lump didn’t go away. Had she changed her mind? Did Floyd not wish her to marry him?

“I did not mean silence right now, Major Tallmadge,” Mrs. Washington offered a smile, attempting to diffuse the tension.

“What do you need from me, sir?” Ben’s voice broke.

“Merely your cooperation.”

“You have it. Excuse me,” he left without waiting for the dismissal.

 

~*~

 

Mary had given him a book of poetry for Christmas. Her little sister had also sent a drawing. Following his birthday celebration, she had baked cookies and decorated them. But other than the book of poetry, he had nothing from Mary and he desperately wished he did. He wished he had even a handkerchief she’d stitched even the tiniest of designs onto to hold close. To hold as a poor substitute for her.

Instead, he reread her most recent letter, looking for clues that would indicate a distance growing between them. But no, not a hint. She had detailed events of her family’s life, anticipation of the coming winter, and even signed off “affectionately yours”.

Though he had other duties, and other correspondence to attend to, he got out a fresh sheet of paper, picked up his quill, and began to write.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary leaned down to smudge the extra line away from the ‘h’. “Very good, you almost had it perfectly! Now let’s try Floyd, how do we spell Floyd?”

“F-L-O- …” Betsy scrunched up her nose. “F-L-O…E?”

“Y,” Mary corrected. “F-L-O-Y-?”

“T!” Betsy grinned.

“No, Floyd, -yd,” she stressed the last sound. “Words that end in ‘t’ sound like ‘it’, ‘object’, or ‘Hoyt’. Our name ends like ‘end’,” she pronounced the ‘d’ sound on its own. “What letter sounds like that?”

“D,” Nicky announced, strolling into the room with papers tucked under his arm. Mary rolled her eyes at him, annoyed. “Is she boring you, Bets? I think I know a way to get her to let you go play.” Betsy giggled. “Letter for you, from Major Tallmadge.” Nicky held it out and Mary reached to take it only to have Nicky hold it up just out of reach. Unperturbed, Mary stood up and again tried to grab it. This time Nicky held it up over his head. “The letter for Betsy’s freedom –“ Mary jumped for it, but Nicky kept it aloft and out of reach. “Even the British would take those terms.”

“Give it here,” Mary held her hand out with a pointed look.

“Freedom!” Betsy cheered. “My freedom! My freedom!” She abandoned her chalkboard and began dancing around her older siblings.

Nicky turned his back to Mary and put his finger between the folds of the paper, ready to break the seal. “Shall I read it out loud if she doesn’t let you go play?” Nicky asked Betsy.

“Yes!” Betsy cheered as Mary cried, “NO!”

“Afraid there will be some compromising details?” Nicky’s finger slid further, the wax cracked and Mary grabbed hold of his arm. They struggled at which point Betsy realized her brother wasn’t just teasing, his actions would actually upset her sister. She began to call out for their mother and Mary had just gotten a secure hold on Nicky’s wrist when Mrs. Floyd and Kitty hurried into the room.

“What in heaven’s name is happening here?” Mrs. Floyd demanded. “Mary, let got of your brother this instant!”

Mary’s jaw dropped. “Mother! He has my letter –“

“I started it,” Nicky announced. “This is my fault. I was teasing her.” Surprised, Mary released his arm and he held out the letter to her. Quickly, so he couldn’t renege on the offer, Mary snatched the letter out of his hands and slipped it into her pocket. “I apologize, dear sister. I did not intend for it to go this far.”

“Apology accepted.”

 

~*~

 

Immediately after the apologies, Mrs. Floyd dismissed Betsy from her studies and directed Mary to assist with the canning. For most of the afternoon, Mary and Kitty washed cucumbers, watched them turn yellow in the brine, and then boiled them in vinegar. When nearly all of the cucumbers were pickled and stored in jars, they were sent out to dig up the fruits they had buried in the spring. They brushed off the dirt as best they could, placed the bottles of fruit in a basket, and then carried them into the cellar where they would keep for the winter. 

Then they prepared supper (what their mother hadn’t prepared) and helped Betsy set the table.

After supper, finally, Mary was able to read Ben’s letter.

 

_Dear Miss Floyd,_

_General Washington made me aware of an agreement between himself, General Clinton, and your father regarding the incident in New York. Of the particulars, it was reasoned to me that in fulfilling this agreement, you would be eligible to receive suitors befitting your station._

_I confess myself at a loss. Have your feelings and intentions changed? Rest assured, if they have, you need not fear retribution on my behalf. I merely wish to be informed._

_I am, miss, your obedient and humble servant,  
_

_Benj. Tallmadge_

He called her “miss”. Not just once, he called her “miss” _twice_. Every word in the letter reeked of formality, as if they didn’t know one another as well as they did. As if they hadn’t saved each other’s lives and woken up in the other’s arms after doing so.

 On the verge of tears, Mary hurried to retrieve paper, quill, and inkwell. She sat at her vanity and began to write. Unlike Benjamin, she wouldn’t be so stiff and proper.

 

_Dearest Benjamin,  
_

_It sounds as if your information is incomplete. Allow me to rectify that, the head of intelligence ought always know the full details whenever possible._

_This agreement was put together by the three gentlemen you’ve mentioned. General Washington kindly gave my father’s opinions the highest amount of weight he could offer. Given that the options to enact justice for what occurred are exceptionally slim – he could issue a challenge, but that is both illegal and unlikely to be accepted, not to mention my father disapproves of dueling. Issuing a legal case in court of law is extremely implausible as well. My father is a known traitor to the crown, what rights would he have if he brought suit in British court? If he were to attempt to issue suit in America, the British do not recognize our sovereignty, not to mention the judicial state at present is in a very unique and vexing position._

_Despite these legal setbacks, my father felt – and the generals agreed – that recompense must be issued. Offers of money were made to my father with the provision that we not speak of what happened. Upon this, I refused. I was not the target of the affair, I should not be the one to profit of it. Given the enemy’s reluctance to offer money to the army for your sufferings – indeed, getting General Clinton to acknowledge your unfortunate part in the affair was most trying – it was eventually decided that a prisoner release would do. The number twenty-five was agreed upon, though I know not the math behind it._

_As for receiving other suitors – I have much to say on that issue and I beg you to read and comprehend every word. If some part is unclear to you, I pray you ask me for clarification._

_My feelings and intentions have not changed. I love and await you._

_However, you have not asked my father for his permission nor would he at this time grant it to you. You are a soldier in an active war and as such, could make me a widow as soon as you make me a wife. He is also a member of Congress and therefore knows the sorry state of your pay. You cannot afford to support a family and he will not give me away to a man who cannot support me. For these reasons, he agreed to the silence. He believes I must have options other than you in case something unspeakable were to happen._

_But God is with you, with us, and I know you will survive this war._

_Give my love to Mrs. Strong and Mr. Brewster, if you please. Also, please ask Mr. Brewster if he would kindly explain to me what happened in October of 76, regarding the Princess Mary and Lily._

_Yours always,_

_Mary_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun things - first, the pickling and the preservation of the fruit are based upon Mary Floyd Tallmadge's recipe book (which you can find here: http://www.litchfieldhistoricalsociety.org/archon/?p=digitallibrary/digitalcontent&id=394) 
> 
> Second, yes, Caleb Brewster in October of 1776 was sent (among others) to retrieve some of William Floyd's belongings at Mastic. It...didn't go as planned. They captured two ships (the Princess Mary and the Lily). (This is according to Revolutionary Incidents of Suffolk and Kings Counties by Henry Onderdonk Jr)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This leads into 4x01

“Major Tallmadge, a letter for you, sir,” the courier – one of Ben’s own dragoons – announced loudly from outside the tent. Wary of outside eyes gleaming any information – one of his dragoons or not, no one was above suspicion now – Ben made sure to conceal anything compromising, turning over reports and securing them with rocks so they wouldn’t float away in a breeze. He held on to one scouting report and invited the dragoon inside his tent. The dragoon entered and presented the letter to Ben, taking leave as soon as Ben took it and confirmed he had nothing to send at the moment.

Alone with the letter, Ben couldn’t suppress the tremble of his hands as he adjusted the letter to read his name written there. 

The handwriting made his heart sink and yet made it easier to draw breath. It was not Mary’s handwriting. Her answer had not yet reached him and he would continue for another day in this nebulous state of not knowing.

On second glance, the handwriting looked familiar but he couldn’t place it. Ben broke the seal and began to read.

> _As I know you to be a man of sense, I am conscious you are, by this time, fully of opinion that the real interest and happiness of America consists in a reunion with Great Britain._

What.

Ben could neither believe his eyes nor the words he read. Benedict Arnold writing to him? With praise? And encouraging _him_ to defect? And bring over others?

What was Arnold thinking? 

Was this a genuine offer and based upon Arnold’s true beliefs that Ben would ever betray his principles and his country? If so, the man had either gone mad or never been smart and just lucky in all his military success. 

No, it couldn’t be that Arnold actually believed Ben would take him up on the offer. But if it wasn’t a real offer, then what was the purpose in sending this? And how had Arnold sent it to Ben? How had it – 

Ben jumped up from his seat and hurried out of his tent, scrunching the letter in his fist so no one could read it or the signature. “Where did Ensign Church go?” he asked the nearest man he could find. After some asking he finally found the man at Anna’s cart, haggling.

“Ensign Church!” Ben called out. The man instantly turned and gave him a salute. “I need to speak with you about this letter you brought me.”

“Yes, sir,” Ensign Church looked over at Anna. “Two shillings, that’s my final price.”

“And I told you, I can’t go any lower than three –“

 “Give it to him for two, Mrs. Strong, and I’ll cover the final shilling.”

Anna raised a brow but agreed. Ensign Church handed over his coins and took his purchase. Ben promised to bring the shilling to Anna after he’d concluded their business. “You’d best, not even General Washington can short change me, sir.”

“What can I do for you, sir? The ensign asked.

“This letter,” Ben held it up, though obviously not so that the dragoon could read any of it. “Who gave it to you? Where did you receive it?”

The ensign thought and then apologized. “I’m sorry, Major, I don’t recall. I didn’t get any unusual drops, nobody came late with mail begging me to wait, everyone who gave me letters to deliver were the same people I always deal with. Is there something wrong, sir?”

“No, good work, Ensign,” Ben clapped the man on the arm and dismissed him.

Ensign Church was a good soldier and he sounded sincere. The man likely told the truth, but Ben would keep an eye on him anyway. There were plenty of stops and ways to get a letter to someone without alerting the courier to its impropriety. Ben himself had snuck a forged letter through Benedict Arnold’s mail not too long ago.

That parallel was not lost on him.

As Ben wandered back to his tent, he wondered what his next step should be. Of course he would bring it to Washington, but when? He couldn’t take it now, knowing nothing more, and without a plan to either learn more or how to respond.

He could accept it – as a ruse, of course. Be taken in like when Gamble had passed himself off as a deserter from the British. That had turned out quite well for them – stealing off with important papers. But could that work with Arnold?

Ben clearly remembered dismounting his horse, pulling out his pistol, Arnold raising his hand in salute, Ben pulling the trigger –

 - and missing!

If he tried the ruse, would that work in his favor? Did Arnold think it an attempt to cover Ben’s own traitorous thoughts?

No, Ben hadn’t been able to contain his fury, his indignation. That had been why he fired at Arnold.

And Arnold was intelligent enough to recollect the look on Ben’s face. A ruse wouldn’t work. His every step would be watched, his words doubted.

Besides, there was the history of when Ben had gone to New York to secure Mary’s release. The events that had transpired then definitely eliminated the option for trickery.

So what to do? Send a response telling Arnold to go to hell? Tempting, but he wouldn’t do that without Washington’s input.

Ben contemplated how he should present the letter to Washington until sunset when Anna approached with to demand her shilling. She brought Caleb along with her and Caleb brought rum. The three friends had a drink around the fire. Most of the time was spent with Anna and Caleb awkwardly trying to engage Ben in conversation. Caleb mentioned the latest scuttlebutt, something about pay. Ben wanted nothing to do with Congress and money at the moment. Anna brought up some new goods that had come her way, things that might interest them. Again, Ben had nothing to say to that.

Eventually Anna retired, leaving Ben and Caleb to drink and watch the flames.

Watching the flames, Ben recalled the papers Gamble had stolen. Papers that made reference to the Culpers, their code numbers. They had heard nothing from Abe or Townsend. “Caleb, I need you to check on Abe. He might need to be extracted from Setauket.”

Caleb nodded, “That why you’re so quiet tonight?”

“Just…thinking,” Ben shrugged. “It’s been a difficult time.”

“Right. I’ll take a boat in the morning, get them out.” Ben nodded. “Hear anything from your girl?”

Ben flinched.

“That’s a no, then. She’s crazy about you, Tall-boy. This stuff, likely her father. He’s a Congressman, you know they’ve got to be bastards at every opportunity.”

 “Careful, that’s your government you’re talking about."

Caleb laughed. “To Congress!” he raised his flask. Ben smiled, though he tried not to.

 

~*~

 

Ben saw Caleb off in the morning, wishing him success and providing him some money for his journey. He then went to scrounge up something for breakfast. He’d started to cut a slice of bread when a drummer approached him. “Major Tallmadge?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a peddler askin’ to see you, sir.”

“Tell Mrs. Strong she ca-“

“It ain’t Mrs. Strong, sir. It’s a traveling peddler, says he’s got a letter for you and was told to give it only to you.” 

Ben sighed, put away his food, and walked with the drummer to where the peddler waited. Ben’s stomach growled as they approached the cart. The peddler exchanged money for some goods with one of the camp women and then turned to them. “You Major Tallmadge?”

“I am,” Ben greeted him.

“Cyrus McCaskell, and I have a letter for you,” he took it out of his belt and Ben took it. Then he looked at the cart and asked Mr. McCaskell if he had any food for sale. The peddler showed him what he had and Ben ended up purchasing some sugar. Thankfully he hadn’t put the purse away or else he’d have to make another trip. 

On his way to his tent, Ben stopped by Anna’s cart and showed her the sugar. Without asking, she snatched it from him and told him she’d make some breakfast. He took a seat on one of her kettles.

“That’s not a seat,” she chastised.

“It works for one,” Ben countered. He looked at some of her items (gloves, utensils) and wondered if she liked this business. Then he looked at the letter, half expecting another harassing letter from Arnold or something equally worthless and vexing. 

Instead he saw his name written in Mary’s hand. 

His heart beat raced and it became difficult to swallow. He tugged at his cravat and wondered if the day would be warmer than usual. Maybe it was just him. It was probably just him.

“What’s that?” Anna asked.

Ben opened his mouth and tried to say it was from Mary, but nothing came out. Just an exhale of air. She left the pan and held out her hand, offering to read it for him. Equally relieved and yet unwilling to share a single word Mary had written, Ben lifted the letter towards her a fraction of an inch. Anna took that as approval and she took the letter from him. She unfolded it and promptly handed it back. “It’s good news,” she said with a genuine smile. As soon as it was safely in Ben’s hands, she went back to making breakfast.

Even with Anna’s assurance, Ben scanned the letter, words jumping out to him.

 

_Dearest Benjamin_

_I love you_

_Yours always_

 

He read the letter five times over breakfast, Anna watching him with the air of glee. He finished his breakfast and was about to reread the letter for the sixth time when he heard Col. Hamilton say, “There you are, Major. The General would like to see you.”

“Right,” Ben thanked Anna for breakfast, tucked the letter inside his waistcoat, and told Hamilton he’d be right in, he just needed to gather his papers.


	4. Chapter 4

As winter approached, the town of Middletown prepared for the arrival of its winter residents. Some places prepared for the arrival of newcomers when the weather turned nice – places away from the cities, where the air was cleaner and sick (rich) people would flock to improve their health. They would flee mosquito-ridden places in their search for health.

Not so in Connecticut. In gathering places like the taverns, the stores, and after church, the adults would discuss the arrival of the wintering soldiers.

In the general store, as Mary selected powder for ink, some paper, and new quills, she overheard two ladies discussing how they would _not_ be quartering any soldiers this year. The soldiers last year, evidently, were loud and rude, and ate far more than their fair share.

Prudence draped some calico over her shoulder and looked at Mary, eyebrow raised. What do you think? She silently asked. Mary wrinkled her nose. That was a hideous pattern. Prudence grinned and put it back. Mary put one of the quills in the jar and went over to her friend. “What about this one?” Prudence asked, indicating a yellow striped fabric. “It’s not quite French or Philadelphia – have you noticed that fashionable things start with the ‘f’ sound? Fashionable, French, Philadelphia –“

“Finished?” Prudence stuck out her tongue and the girls giggled. “This one,” Mary selected a red that would compliment her friend's skin tone. They made their purchases and started on the road for the Floyds’. They chatted as they walked, crunching autumn leaves beneath their feet with great satisfaction. But Prudence grew quiet and when Mary asked if everything was all right, Prudence pulled her off the road, into the trees.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can!” Mary protested, wanting to tell Prudence of all the secrets she was, at the moment, keeping. But of course she couldn’t do that, so she held her tongue.

Prudence looked around but even then whispered. “I found this book my brother was reading – he was very upset when I found it, so I told him that if he wanted my silence, I would read it.” Mary nodded encouragingly. “It was…oh, Mary, you have to read it, I cannot begin to explain to you the contents – it defies all common expectation!” Prudence pulled out a worn booklet from her cloak and held it out to Mary.

_Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure_ by John Cleland, Mary read.

“Is this -?”

“My brother got it on the London Trade, if you can believe. Apparently the author went to jail over it."

 

~*~

 

Stealing away to read in private, Mary began to read. The book was not very long and indeed, the plot was thin enough that it required very little concentration to understand what happened. Most characters went by unnamed or with very little detail. Whenever she reached a smut scene, Mary would look around to make sure no one else was near or reading over her shoulder.

There seemed to be recurring themes, Mary noted. In each reference to the loss of her virginity, the women bled and it was painful. Well, that made her feel slightly better. Apparently pain was normal. But it also infuriated her. If it hurt, why weren’t they warned? Why did no one tell them anything? Why did no one try to make it easier, less painful? Surely there was a way.

The blood mention concerned her. Had she bled? Ben hadn’t mentioned it at all. She hadn’t seen any blood when she dressed and she hadn’t felt any? But would she have felt anything? The book was…unhelpful in that regard. Besides, a man wrote it. How would he know?

But heavens! If she had bled and poor Mr. Townsend had to deal with the blood on the linens!

 

~*~

 

Several days later, she received a letter from Ben.

 

 

> _My dear Mary,_
> 
> _I have spoiled six sheets of paper in attempt to reply to you – not for lack of things to say, but the inadequacy of putting pen to paper. Unlike Col. Hamilton, I am ill equipped to pour my mind and soul onto page and would greatly prefer the ability to speak face to face with you. There are things I would like to say that are easier conveyed in person, even if left unspoken. This silence between us at times feels it will grow to an unbearable level._
> 
> _I have no right to ask this of you, but please impress upon your father the importance of the army and its payments being met. We have just experienced a mutiny of the Philadelphia line. They intended to bring their grievances to Congress and impress upon them just how intolerable the army is treated by Congress’ actions – or lack thereof. General Wayne’s suggestion was accepted by Washington and the mutineers were forced to execute the leaders of their mutiny ~~. He marched them straight to the leaders so they would be unable to miss. Perhaps that was a mercy, it guaranteed the men a quick death.~~_
> 
> _I am unable to ask Mr. Brewster about the Princess Mary and the Lily – at the moment he is recuperating. I would tell you the story of his injuries if I could. In person. Perhaps, my dear, it would be advisable to begin a list of things I need to tell you when next we meet. Or after the war, whichever the Divine and military law allows._
> 
> _Another request, if I may be so bold. I have naught of you here but your letters and a book of poetry. I should greatly appreciate it were you to send me something I may carry on my person, something that would weather the elements far better than paper._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Benj. Tallmadge_

 

Ink spots dotted the paper, suggesting Ben had chosen his words very carefully. The crossed out words were still legible if she put some effort into it. Something had happened between his writing and her response, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with her. No doubt he hadn’t taken part of the mutiny, nor been required to execute the leaders, but had he been injured during the course of events? No, he would have mentioned that.

 Wouldn’t he?

 His request for her to ask her father about payments to the army would definitely be fulfilled. She could even pen a note tonight and give it to her mother to send in the morning’s post. Her mother and brother wrote twice a week on average.

The matter of Mr. Brewster could wait. It had waited four years already. Had Brewster been injured in the mutiny? But Ben said he couldn’t explain via post, so she was inclined to believe Brewster’s injuries originated elsewhere.

She would need time to think of what to send Ben. So instead she turned to the task at hand and wrote a letter to her father. She filled the first part with daily observations, how Betsy was learning and how Kitty burned the bread earlier that day because she was too busy watching Nicky chase one of the chickens that had escaped its pen.

Finally she came to the real reason for writing and she paused to make sure that, like Benjamin, she carefully chose her words. She presented her arguments, highlighting the need for funds, why the men deserved to be paid, and that Congress needed to act.

After writing it, she chewed her thumbnail and read over it. Here and there she crossed out words, added some, and corrected her spelling. Then she took out a fresh sheet and copied down the corrected version.

In the time it took for her father’s response to get to her, Mary stitched a few handkerchiefs with Ben’s initials. On one, she added thirteen stars for the states. On another she stitched a snake but then ripped that out as it looked terrible.

Finally she received her response. He was glad to hear of her good health and of the household going ons. He missed them all terribly – it went on.

 

 

> _The issue of payment to the soldiers, my dear, does not fall upon Congress, but rather the states. To bring it to the floor would fail as the sole means of acquiring the necessary funds is taxation. Taxation is an anathema to virtually every man here and I almost believe its hatred to be a core trait of our countrymen. The states are best left to deal with this issue, but I shall pass along your concerns to the governor. Fret not, mutineers will be dealt a swift and decisive reprimand._

Scowling, Mary read her father’s dismissal and then hunted down her brother. Nicky had just begun to muck out the stalls when she found him and he told her to grab a shovel. Figuring it best to appease him, she did so. While they worked, she recounted the letters to and from her father.

Nicky sighed and leaned against the shovel handle. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“You’re a boy, he’ll listen to you.”

Nicky scoffed. “You know I make it policy never to discuss politics with father. Politics is how we got here – how we lost our home, how I didn’t get to go to school like was planned – don’t you remember mama yelling at him when he told her of the Declaration? No, I won’t talk politics with him, it just encourages him to talk about them.”

“But the men need money – I see people profit off this war all the time! And the soldiers are starving, unable to care for their families? Surely Congress –“

Nicky threw down his shovel. “I like talking about politics with you as much as I do father! Start a charity with your sewing circle but leave me. Out. Of. It.” His last words were sentences all on their own and he marched out of the barn, leaving Mary to finish on her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after 4x04 "Nightmare". 
> 
> I stumbled across a mention of "Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure" (aka "Fanny Hill") while doing research on general social history. The author, Cleland, wrote the book in debtors' prison and got in massive trouble for the book. It wasn't legally published for a long time, but it had a demand on the black market. His obituary said the government paid him annually so he'd never write a word of smut again - but this is really doubtful and unverified. If you decide to read it, I should like to warn you of the homophobia and rape scenes (a few of the "smut" scenes take place when the woman is asleep/unconscious and therefore unable to consent. Not to mention a lot of the characters are under 18. So...read with caution and whatever you do, don't make a drinking game out of how often the author uses the word "vermillion".)


	5. Chapter 5

An unexpected letter arrived for Mary soon after her father’s response. She hadn’t managed to write back to Ben. Everything she had to write would likely disappoint him and his tone had been beleaguered enough. Telling him her father’s stance would likely only darken his thoughts. She’d begun talking to the local pastor to see if he would consider passing a plate around for their militia but as of then they were uncertain as to whom they should give the money. Should it go to Governor Trumbull? A member of the Connecticut legislator? Or to a member of the military? If so, who was the highest ranking officer for the Connecticut militias?

The letter solved those questions as her father had forwarded a broadside printed in Philadelphia: an anonymous letter from an American woman with several sentiments Mary found herself strongly agreeing with. On the other side of the essay, there were instructions for where to send the money: Mrs. Washington.

Immediately, she took the broadside to her pastor. Even though the essay had been written with women in mind, they both agreed that they would send the collected money to Mrs. Washington. The collection would be announced at church the following Sunday and the Sunday after that would be the actual collection date.

Even with that planned, the broadside followed her thoughts. Random excerpts echoed throughout her mind as she cleaned the chicken.

 

> “We call to mind, doubly interested, that it was a French Maid who kindled up amongst her fellow-citizens, the flame of patriotism buried under long misfortunes: It was the Maid of Orleans who drove from the kingdom of France the ancestors of those same British, whose odious yoke we have just shaken off; and whom it is necessary that we drive from this Continent.”

Just how had the French woman stoked the patriotic tendencies? Of course she was unnamed so she wouldn’t be able to track down any information about her. And she wouldn’t be certain it was her if she found some patriotic young French woman.

Didn’t Ben know the Maquis de Lafayette? Could she ask him if Lafayette knew anything about this woman?

Oh wait; she knew who the young woman was. Heavens, how had she forgotten? It was Joan of Arc! That was the Maid of Orleans!

“Mary, are you listening to me?” her mother snapped. Mary froze and then looked guiltily at her. Mrs. Floyd sighed and repeated her instructions. After she followed them, Mrs. Floyd asked, “What’s preoccupying your time, Polly?”

“The broadside father sent me,” Mary wiped her hands on her apron and then reached into her pocket to retrieve it. Mrs. Floyd shook her head when Mary held it out. Uncomfortable, Mary put it back.

“And what about the broadside has you physically present but mentally elsewhere?”

“Well, I already spoke to the good reverend about taking up a collection but this broadside really emphasizes the role and impact of _women_.” Mrs. Floyd nodded for Mary to continue while she measured out some flour. “And I can’t help but feel that perhaps the ladies of Middletown should do something on our own. They had a society in Philadelphia for the women’s support – what about here?”

Mrs. Floyd measured some molasses and added it to the bowl of wet ingredients. Setting it down carefully, she took a breath and Mary knew her mother’s response would be a long one. “You remind me more and more of your father every day…so political. When your father agreed to independence from Great Britain, I was angry. Angry because a group of men decided to bring terror and destruction to our homes without explaining how they could provide for their families and win the war. Many of the men who have profited from this battle are just as concerned as I was about keeping their money secure for their families.

“When we were last in Philadelphia, Congress voted to rescind all currency. That means that capital is even more important. Money is certainty. The army makes people feel uncertain – we just lost one of our best generals. If it appears we will lose the war, they will want to stock up on supplies.”

Mary’s shoulders drooped. In sympathy, her mother put her hand on Mary’s arm. “Listen, I know you’re probably thinking I don’t support your efforts to help the cause. I do. I just think you need to understand where people are coming from and plan accordingly. You’ve already planned for a collection in a little over a week and now you want to have a women only fundraiser? They will likely need to get their money from the men in their lives, who will have likely donated during the service.

“So my first bit of advice is to wait a while. Give it a month or so – perhaps wait until the approach of the next campaign? And make it something closer to a sale – have people sell homemade goods or jams or baked goods. Then everyone can buy something. You can donate all the proceeds to the army and say it’s from the ladies of Middletown.”

Mary’s jaw dropped.

“Mother, why aren’t you in Philadelphia giving this kind of advice to father?”

“Because the art of politics taxes my patience more than the British attempted to tax America.”

 

~*~

 

Mrs. Floyd wrapped the gingerbread and packed it tightly with the two oranges, using the socks to protect it from being squished by the fruit. With great care, she hid the money they had decided to send inside the package. Mail theft was common and even though Nicky had arranged for it to travel per Mr. Wadsworth’s secure route, there was still a risk. They hadn’t told Mr. Wadsworth of the contents, merely that they wished for a care package to reach Lt. Brewster who, according to a mutual friend, was not feeling his usual self. Anything more might have raised suspicions if he’d sent the parcel with a special courier.

“Are we sure we want to do this?” Nicky asked just before leaving for Wethersfield, tucking the package into his saddlebags. “We’re sending him money, food, and expensive fruit after he failed to retrieve our belongings from home?”

“Hush, Nicoll. He escorted Polly home and he’s a fellow Long Islander in this war. That settles the matter.”

 

~*~

 

Mrs. Woodhull’s reproach echoed in Caleb’s ears as he made his way back to….well, he hadn’t decided quite where he would go. He had thought of going back to Ben, to try and have the conversation Ben had wanted to have about Mulligan. But going back to Ben was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Tallboy had been captured too, by Lt. Gamble and he’d spilled not a word, not a name. He’d even been shot and nearly died, if some helpful young lass hadn’t saved him. Probably she’d been wooed by Ben’s blue eyes, he’d heard the ladies talking, swooning over the major. Caleb wasn’t blind, he knew his best friend was beautiful – not that he’d ever tell Ben that with any seriousness.

Forget Gamble, he’d been ambushed, about to be bayoneted, and somehow managed to escape Robert fucking Rogers and his Rangers!

And Caleb? Caleb had gotten nabbed by some random Cowboy mercenaries. And he’d spilled Abe’s name, if not with his mouth, then with his lack of mouth. First time keeping quiet had ever actually hurt him.

But...wait...he hadn’t kept quiet. He’d laughed.

 So his mouth _had_ gotten him in trouble.

No, Caleb couldn’t go back to Ben.

Besides, Ben had Selah to deal with. And that was another unpleasant pile Caleb didn’t want to wade through.

If Selah took Annie with him – well, who would manage Mary?

And who would be there for Caleb’s jokes, team up with him against Ben when he was being a stick up the arse?

No, he would not go to see Selah.

There was no where in this camp that Caleb could go.

And so he wandered. Wandered past tents full of snoring soldiers, past fires where men laughed, whined, boasted, and cooked, beyond tents that shook with moaning, away from the house that Housed the General who no doubt thought Caleb worth less than the dirt a servant swept off a road.

“Lt. Brewster?” someone stopped him – a courier. Caleb knew most of the couriers but this one’s name escaped him.

Simcoe haunted his dreams, messed with his memory of _then_ , and severed the ties between his brain and his arms to the point he couldn’t throw a hatchet – but had he robbed him of his camp memories too?

“Package for you,” the courier presented it and indeed his name was written clearly: Lt. Caleb Brewster.

Who the hell had sent him a package? He held it in his hands, he didn’t remember accepting it or anything between seeing it and then holding it with the courier gone.

Caleb made his way to the edge of camp, away from prying eyes, and opened it. His hands shook – his whole body shook. Just what was inside? Just who had sent it? He didn’t know, didn’t want to know, had to know –

Two oranges, four pairs of new socks – good ones too, thick and soft, gingerbread, a package of coffee, some of sugar, and a cornhusk doll. He found money scattered throughout the items.

And then the letter.

 

_Dear Mr. Brewster,_

_It was with sadness that we learned from Major Tallmadge that you were hurt. Please accept these items; we hope their usage will speed your recovery. As we cannot send food that would actually sustain you, we have provided some money that you might purchase meat, bread, or any goods you may require. We apologize that it is not more but we are quite uncertain it will arrive at all. Kindly let us know if you did not receive the money._

_We have not forgotten your kindness._

_Your humble servants,_

_Hannah, Nicoll, Mary, Catherine, & Elizabeth Floyd_

_PS. B_ _etsy included the doll so that you could have some companionship. – Hannah Floyd_

Caleb looked at the cornhusk doll. He didn’t know Elizabeth Floyd, hadn’t paid much attention to the lot that came out to envelop Mary in hugs when he’d escorted her back to Connecticut. But he suddenly found himself thinking quite fondly of the little girl. He imagined her to have brown hair, like her elder sister. She probably had an adorable little nose and large eyes full of kindness and wonder.

He tucked the doll inside his shirt and was astonished to realize he was smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotation comes from "Sentiments of an American Woman" written by Esther Reed. She wrote it, not Martha Washington, and she wrote it in June of 1780, before Arnold defected. While I don't have proof that anyone in Connecticut did participate in similar fundraising as the broadside advocated (and indeed carried out), it seems possible. So whatever, I'm doing it. 
> 
> Also, I hadn't planned on spending so much time with Caleb but MY POOR BABY NEEDS TO BE HUGGED AND LOVED AND GODDAMN IT, I WILL DO IT.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

_My dear Polly,_

_An acquaintance of yours came up during a session of Congress and we all agreed to issue a commendation for his valiant actions on our home island. I must confess I felt an odd surge of fatherly pride in the man or perhaps in you, for having the good mind to see him for who he is and what he is capable of accomplishing._

_I’ve enclosed a copy of the letter General Washington wrote as well as a copy of the commendation and congressional record.  
_

_All my love to you and the family,_

_Papa_

 

~*~

 

Whistling while he walked, Caleb carried the package into Ben’s tent. At the rustle of fabric, Ben glanced over his shoulder and promptly put his quill into the inkwell. “Everything all right?” he asked. Caleb shrugged and set the package on Ben’s cot. Curious, Ben cocked his head to the side.

“Where’s Annie?” Caleb asked, retrieving one of the oranges. Casually, he tossed it up and caught it. Ben’s eyes focused on the orange sphere and widened.

“The Sutler’s cart, I believe – where did you –“ Ben caught the orange and stopped speaking mid-question. Gently, he scratched the fruit with his thumbnail and then held it to his nose for a sniff. Sweet and tangy citrus filled his nose and he longed to peel the orange and devour the fruit segment by segment. “Where did you get this?” he asked, restraining himself. There were people who actually needed the oranges, he had enough food.

 “I received the strangest bit of mail I’ve ever received in my life,” Caleb unfolded the wrappings around the gingerbread and he held out a piece to Ben. Molasses, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, clove – his mouth watered and he broke off a portion. Raisins too, he noted as he lifted the piece to his mouth and devoured it.

It tasted…familiar. And not in the familiar way all gingerbread tasted. Even if there were standard ingredients in a basic recipe, everyone cooked and baked food that tasted different somehow. He crushed a raisin between his teeth and the image of snowy Connecticut, skating on a frozen pond came to mind.

This tasted like the gingerbread Mary had brought that afternoon they’d gone ice skating.

“From whom?” Ben asked, knowing.

“The Floyds,” Caleb showed him the letter and Ben read over it. Mary hadn’t written it but she had signed her name along with the rest of her family – even little Betsy had taken the effort to spell out her whole name.

Unnecessarily, but unable to stop himself, Ben cast his glance to the date. It didn’t matter, He’d not received a letter from Mary since letting her know of Caleb’s injured state. He knew this, he knew his last letter to Mary had been terse, but he hadn’t expected Caleb to get _anything_ from her before he did. 

“I was thinking we could split this – but we’ve got two oranges between the five of us and I’ll need Anna to get this to Mary and Thomas.”

 

~*~

 

Caleb left, leaving the money with Ben, some gingerbread, and the promise of a third of an orange. He also left Ben with a pit in his stomach, though Caleb had neither intended that nor known about it.

But duty came first, so Ben wrote out several copies of basically the same letter. They had a list of options, now to narrow it down, especially with Abe where he was. The requirements had been fairly specific and Ben imagined the commanders who’d recommended the men likely knew the sort of mission they would send the man on. And so all that was left was to pick one. Picking one would require meeting them and so these letters would schedule that meeting.

As he signed his name on the third one, he leaned back from his desk and sighed. This idea, this defection idea had stemmed in part from the letter he’d received from Arnold. Surely others had received a similar offer – after all, Arnold would have a very low number to enlist this far into the war from the loyalists. Those available wouldn’t be quite as devoted, they’d be very green and in need of a lot of training, or they would be in it just for the money. His best bet for trained and devoted soldiers would be to enlist those who were already in the fight and with a grievance of some sort. Given the currency crisis – of which Arnold surely knew – the time for defection was ripe.

And – as an added bonus for Arnold – a military unit composed of defectors would have a shared, almost unbreakable connection. They wouldn’t be trusted by regulars, they’d betrayed one side, what would keep them from doing it again? The ostracization would force them to band together. Any new man would automatically get Arnold’s affection to a degree, there’d be a shared sense of who they are. Or the belief that they were the same.

He planned to write to Mary after he finished his letters to the commanders but for some reason, writing them was draining. By the last one, Ben was exhausted. He could scarcely keep his eyes open and his stomach was queasy. He sealed them all and intended to send them in the morning.

Without going out to see anyone, Ben tied the flaps of his tent closed and undressed. He undid his queue and combed his hair. Ready for bed, he blew out his candle and settled in for the night.

He woke hours later, drenched in sweat, panting. Andre’s execution had played out in his dreams, he’d escorted Andre in the carriage to the noose but when he shook the man’s hand, it was Nathan. 

Nathan, dressed in his school uniform, eyes full of terror and betrayal, his hand like ice in Ben’s hand.

They shook hands, Ben said nothing, and Nathan gave him Andre’s exact expression. The bitter, sorrowful resignation.

Then Nathan turned to march up the gallows, the rope was placed around his neck. Unlike Andre he didn’t put it on himself, he didn’t tie a cloth around his face.

Ben watched as he swung from the rope, face decaying before his eyes. The uniform became tattered, tore in the wind, eventually putrefying to the point where Nathan’s naked body hung from the rope, the still pristine rope. 

Ben watched it. Until Abe came along to cut it down and threw it onto a cart. “What?” he asked when he saw Ben. “Can’t leave it up forever, we’ve got to take our turn eventually.” 

“Our turn?” Ben asked.

“Well yeah, that’s what happens to spies, to traitors.” Abe put his hands to his throat and gagged, then dropped his hands to his side and laughed. “Better to die like this by your enemy than have your face blown clean off by a friend.”

Ben scrambled out of bed, tripping over his own boots. He clawed the ties of his tent apart and scrambled into the cold night air. The frost melted beneath his bare feet and when his feet lost traction, Ben willingly fell to the ground. He rolled over and pressed his face against the dying grass and fallen leaves, cooling himself with melted precipitation.

Cooled off and calmer, Ben rose and attempted to dust himself off. Two or three leaves required him to actually focus and remove them as they were under the edges of his clothes. He removed them and dropped them on the ground. 

He returned to his tent and lit a candle. The stack of letters to be mailed sat on his desk, sealed and waiting. Ben picked up the top one and turned it over in his hands.

What had been said to Nathan? What had inspired him to go behind enemy lines? 

They were a long way from Yale. From any semblance of what they’d ever thought they would be. It seemed ages ago that he’d written to Nathan about an attractive woman living in the floor above his. Eons since they’d argued over some dumb assignment, Ben no longer remembered the subject, but he did remember Nathan hurling his book at him and saying some harsh words. Enoch had locked them both out of the room that night, forcing them to sleep in the hall. They’d gotten over the argument to team up and exact revenge on Enoch later.

How many years had passed? How many men had died, how many years would they have lived without this war?

Then he remembered memorizing lines from Horace, lines from the Odes. _Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi – do not ask what our destined term of years, mine and yours._

“Life is short; should hope be more? In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away. Seize the day; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.”

Nathan’s Latin had always been better than Ben’s. 

He stared at the letters until daybreak, debating about talking directly to the commanders so they understood what sort of mission he had in mind.

Nathan had been unprepared but knew what he signed up for. This time around, Ben would not make Washington’s mistake. He wouldn’t send the man in unprepared, they would talk, they would practice – he would remind the man of the importance of keeping his cover intact.

 

~*~

 

“Major Tallmadge,” the courier shook him awake. Startled, Ben pulled away and blinked at the man. “Mail for you, sir, do you have any to go out?” Quickly, Ben grabbed the stack of letters and handed them over.

Shite. He hadn’t written to Mary, he’d only started it.

“Sir…” the courier hesitated after Ben took his mail and began to leaf through it. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted,” Ben nodded. 

“You have ink on your face, sir.” The courier brushed his hand against his own cheek to show just where. Ben mirrored the motion and felt the dried ink beneath his fingertips.

“Thank you, that’ll teach me for sleeping at my desk.” The courier nodded, saluted, and left.

Rising to his feet, Ben stretched. His back ached and he was stiff. He walked to his dresser and poured some water into a basin and picked up his shaving mirror to view the extent of the ink.

“Major Tallmadge?” the courier spoke up. “I nearly forgot – there’s a parcel for you.”

The courier brought in a wrapped package and Ben gestured for him to place it on the bed. He cleaned his face and went over to pick up the letter accompanying the large package.

 

_My dearest Benjamin,_

_I wrote to my father and have unpleasant news. It is not Congress’s place to pay the soldiers, that is a responsibility left to the states. To introduce a measure to have Congress pay opens up too many political squabbles regarding taxation and states’ rights._

_However, I have taken the liberty, in following with the broadside “Sentiments of an American Woman” to raise funds for the Connecticut troops. The church here in Middletown took up a collection yesterday and the funds are on their way to Mrs. Washington. My mother and I are planning an event to further raise funds and I have asked Nicky to write to Governor Trumbull regarding payment for our soldiers. I’m so sorry I cannot do more._

_My father also sent note that you were commended by congress for your actions at Fort St. George. Congratulations! I wish I were there to celebrate with you._

_Will you be in Connecticut any time this winter? December is almost over._

_All my love,_

_Mary_

Ben unwrapped the present and found a few handkerchiefs with his initials embroidered on them. But then he unfolded the quilt and laughed. A few sachets fell out as he unfolded the fabric to its full size. Keep him warm it would indeed.

 

 

 


End file.
